The Time Has Come
by Jaeger Gipsy Danger
Summary: A young man of Skyrim out to prove himself worthy of all that life expects of him.
1. The Time Has Come Chapter 1

TITLE: The Time Has Come

CHAPTER: 1, Curiouser and Curioser

* * *

SERIES: Skyrim - Skyrim Adventures

Story 1: To Take a Tree From the Forest

Story 2: What is Hidden in Snow

Story 3: The Time Has Come

Story 4: Starfire

Story 5: Vika

* * *

"Where should I go?" -Alice. "That depends on where you want to end up." - The Cheshire Cat."

― Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland &amp; Through the Looking-Glass

* * *

Run and he might live, stop running and he will certainly die. His Nordic boots slip on the ancient stones stone floor scummy with old blood and gore. The air is thick with the stench of a thousand years of rot. More interested in finding treasure than using common sense the young man failed to notice the large brass object until it unwound itself and came after him. The Dwemer Centurion is much faster, but he has the advantage of climbing and using cover where he finds it. The mechanical monster aimed at him and he dove for cover, he cried out in pain when a bronze-tipped spear sliced across his cheek. Stifling the cry he doubled his speed. Scrambling and stumbling, he sucked in a lung full of the miasma and pulled himself around a corner and into another dark corridor.

The gloom is so thick he imagines he can touch it with his hands and move it aside like the drapes around his bed. If only he could use it to hide from the thing chasing him. Glancing down at himself, he sees fresh blood on his armor and realizes he's left a trail. It doesn't matter; his feet leave an easy trail to follow through the dust.

The ancient Dwemer ruin intrigued him since he was old enough to hold a dagger in his hand. The ornate golden beams and alien looking pipes that led to nowhere are a beckoning trail to an adventurer like him.

He slid to a stop inside a small antechamber, slamming the heavy metal door closed behind him. Falling slowly to one of the stone beds, he let his head fall into his hands. Trying hard to still his pounding heart and ragged breathing, he reaches into his satchel. His fingers touch only a few crumbs of his last piece of bread. When had he run out of food? Yesterday or this morning? Just as the murky gloom pulled him in with the promise of adventure, the endless darkness has tricked him. He can no longer count the number of days.

A small sip of water does nothing to sate him. He does not intend to join the family of skeletons that litter the hallways. The prize he carries around his neck is worth dying for, but today is not the day.

When his breathing finally quiets, the young man listens intently for the creaking sound of the centurion. Silence in the hallway teases him into believing the metallic creature has stopped searching for him. He unfolds himself from the bed to his full height of almost six feet. Tall he may be, but the truth is he's a boy of only fifteen summers. Occasionally, and if it suits him, he might lie and tell you he's sixteen. He might get away with it because he's tall and muscular, with a square jaw, broad shoulders, and a shock of blond hair, which glints like burnished copper in the sun. He hates it when people notice his hair because it's like a girl's hair and that makes him hate it even more.

The ladies at the inn tell him he's handsome. They tell him other things, too. They make him offers and promises that make him blush. Blushing is worse than the color of his hair. Not that he doesn't think about those things. The problem is everyone in the town where he lives knows him. Just the thought of the consequences if he someone saw him following a barmaid into a room or the woods made him blush harder.

The crash and bang of metal doors opening make him jump back startled. In one movement, he's crouching with his ax in his hand, as a shield settles into his left. With a quick sigh of thanks to the Divines that it's only a Dwemer spider, he faces the new adversary. He's hungry, tired, and more than a little scared. He holds on to his bravado and takes a swing at the Spider. The cocky arrogance of his youth allowed the spider to get too close. The electrical jolt of its attack sends a painful jolt up his arm and drops him to his knees.

Retching with pain, he lets himself fall to the side and rolls across the room. There is no doubt this thing will kill him. He reminds himself that this isn't the first time he's faced death since entering the ruins and summons the bravado again. With all the strength born of fear and the need to survive, he swings his right arm. The ax turns true and imbeds itself into the mechanism on top of the spider's head.

It's still moving, scrabbling horribly on the stone floor. He smashes his shield into it. The ax pulls free and he falls backward. Before he can right himself, the spider dies with stray sparks wisping from the metal housing and the horrible glowing eye dims to nothing.

That was close he thinks, as dry heaves tear through his stomach and throat. He'd allowed the thing to corner him. His fighting master would be furious with him about his carelessness. Well, he'd killed the thing hadn't he? No, that wouldn't be enough for his teacher. Every move must be done correctly. It doesn't matter if you're running for your life, defending yourself or just practicing.

When the horror subsides, he staggers to his feet and takes a long drink of water. The sudden wish that he was out hunting with his father, or sitting beside the fire with his mother is pushed angrily away. He is out here to prove himself and he will.

While he forces himself to wait a few more minutes, he strips the spider of valuable parts. Then he sees it, the dull gleam of a Dwemer sword hidden behind a metal dresser. Excellent. His pack is already full so makes the decision to trade his steel sword for the higher quality Dwemer artifact. If his parents allowed him to have a proper Nordic sword, he wouldn't have to trade away his steel sword. Searching further, he hopes to find a matching bow, but there's nothing more. From this angle, Praise the Divines, he sees another satchel and leather change purse.

The bag contains an apple and a quantity of dried beef. The apple tastes as sweet as a maiden's lips, and he sighs when he sinks his sharp white teeth into the firm red flesh. Not that he knows the taste of a maiden's lips. There had been that time down in the kitchens when a serving wench teased him until he'd impatiently pressed his lips against hers. The cook had walked in, and he'd broken the touch so quickly he had no real memory of the sensation. His parents are strict with him, and he's never out of sight of them, his tutors, or his fighting master. He's headstrong, impatient and always in a hurry to seek his adventure. This feeling fuels a driving need to get out of the restrictive world of his home and the expectations of his parents.

As the food strengthens his body, the wound on his cheek begins to throb. At least it isn't bleeding anymore. What an excellent scar he will have to show for his battle with the Dwemer soldiers. He finds a cloth to clean the wound and wishes, as he has many times, that he'd been patient enough to let his Mother teach him some magic.

He thinks of his parents and wonders what they are doing. Are they worried about him? Worse, are they out looking for him? Two days before his fifteenth birthday, he waited until midnight and snuck out of the castle right under the noses of the court and the party guests. The whole town had been celebrating Skyrim's victory over the Imperials. The celebration was loud enough for him to walk down to the basement and out of the castle, through the crowds and out the gate. The night before, he'd filled a saddlebag with food. Now, dressed in his warmest clothes and best armor, he bid a silent goodbye to his parents. Then he'd mounted the dappled gray gelding his parents gave him as a birthday gift and galloped into The Pale. The horse's name is Silver, and the young man is the only son of a Jarl.

He'd been galloping across the tundra for several hours when the sun began to rise. After watering his horse, he kept up the fast pace until night fell again. When the sun started to set over the icy land, he suddenly remembered, between his tutor, his bodyguard, the Court, and his parents, he'd never been alone in his whole life. There was no one to make him supper, lay out his clothes, or clean his armor. That was okay because he was out here to prove to his parents that he is a warrior. He wouldn't go home until there were stories to tell and treasure to show he'd succeeded.

When night closed over the open land of tundra, without removing his armor, the young man curled inside his bedroll. While he lay there staring up at the brilliantly lit night, the whole of Skyrim came alive for him that night. The Aurora flickered and danced in the night sky. The colors changed the face of the moons to purple and green, to red and back again. Several night creatures came up to watch him before scampering back to their hiding places. In the distance, wolves howled and called to one another. When his eyes finally drifted shut, he dreamt of a dragon circling over him high in the frosty night sky. The ice on its wings reflected the light from the stars and the aurora. He would never speak of the terror of those first few nights alone.

That night was a month ago and after stuffing the remaining food into his satchel, he peeked into the hallway.

~o0o~

The Jarl of Windhelm entered his chambers and joined his wife by the massive fireplace.

"Is he gone?" She asked wiping a tear from her cheek as if he'd caught her at something she shouldn't be doing.

"Aye, I watched him gallop away."

"We did the right thing," her statement came out more like a question than a statement.

The Jarl poured them each a cup of wine and joined her by the fireplace. He gathered her up in his arms, and he held her close while they drank the wine and watched the fire.

Once, she'd been tough enough to face anything. Watching her first-born gallop into the night proved to the line she could not cross. She sipped her wine, told herself he would be okay and found strength in the arms of her husband.

They talked about the old days and their children. They cuddled together next to the fire and finished the bottle. Deep into the night, he pushed his wife gently down on the soft bearskin rug and made love to her with the same passion as on their wedding night.

* * *

"The time has come

The walrus said

To talk of many things:

Of shoes- and ships-

And sealing wax-

Of cabbages and kings-

And why the sea is boiling hot-

And whether pigs have wings."

"Curiouser and curiouser!" ― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland


	2. The Time Has Come Chapter 2

TITLE: The Time Has Come

CHAPTER: 2, Feels Like Forever

* * *

Alice- "How long is forever?"

White Rabbit- "Sometimes, just one second."

― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

* * *

While the Jarl and his lady wife, lay curled together, enjoying the dreamless sleep of lovers. Their son is rousing himself from a stone bed. Curled to keep himself warm, he woke with a start and checked his surroundings. The door is still closed, and the glass and brass amulet is still around his neck. Another night spent in his armor. He probably smells like a goat by now. Then he smiles as he imagines his mother's scolding for his forgetfulness.

Once or twice he's imagined himself pointing out that she spent several years out in the world herself, adventuring and in her armor for days at a time. She brooks no smart-mouthing from him, and he's very aware she could use magic or a Thu'um on him and he'd find himself flat on his back on the other side of the fire pit. No, he will keep his mouth shut on that subject. He suddenly misses them terribly and wishes to be home with is family. Lost and alone inside this Dwemer ruin, his regular life suddenly doesn't seem so intolerable.

High above the town of Windhelm, the morning sun finds its way into the Jarl's chambers in the Palace of the Kings. The Jarl woke with the warm sunlight on his face and gently separated himself from his slumbering wife. He watches her sleeping while he shrugs into his robes. The love he feels for her is as strong as their first days of marriage. In truth, he's loved her since he watched her eyes open on the wagon ride to Helgen. The ride that would have been their last moments alive.

He'd been so happy just to have someone to talk to, the only other occupant of the wagon was a whining, sniveling milk drinker of a man who cried out at every bump in the road. With Ulfric bound and gagged, there was no chance for conversation. But when she opened her eyes, he'd seen courage there. They were on their way to execution, yet she showed no fear. The kind of courage most men didn't possess. By talking to her, she turned in the wagon seat. Ulfric had been staring down her shirt the entire ride. The thin linen of their prison clothes left little to the imagination. His distrust of the great bear Ulfric Stormcloak began at that moment.

He'd said to her, 'a Nord's last thoughts should be of home.' She'd only nodded and closed her eyes again. The town was just over the next ridge. It wouldn't be long now. He wanted to reach out and comfort her. When they'd stepped down from the wagon, she'd taken a moment to squeeze their bound hands together. The fear of dying left him at her selfless gesture. When he watched her walk calmly toward the block, he wondered at the source of her courage.

Today, he watched that lady sigh in her sleep and turn over on her back. The movement exposed her torso to his gaze. His breath caught as he watches the steady rise and fall of her chest. The fine lines of childbirth left their mark on her pale skin. She hated the lines, but he loved them. Those marks represented their lives together, their love and the children they'd made together.

"Ralof, what are you staring at?" She asked in a teasing voice, not bothering to cover herself.

"I'm staring at the beautiful woman in my bed and thanking the Divines for blessing me with her favor," came his reply as he sat down next to her. She rose up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I love you, Vika." His hands carded into the wild mane of her long red hair. Ralof pulled her head back far enough to claim her mouth with his. "For as long as the Gods grant us," he breathed against her lips.

Three children were born over the sixteen years of their marriage. A seventeen-year-old girl, named Ingun, another girl, named Sigrid, who is ten summers at the turning of the year and their son, Einarr.

"I love you, Ralof. And I've something to prove it."

"Don't be silly, woman. You show me every day." But he stopped teasing when her face turned solemn, he's not accustomed to seeing the doubt in her eyes. "What is it. Tell me quickly," he said with his hands gripping her shoulders.

Vika braced Ralof's face with her hands. "Ralof, my love. I'm with child again."

Childbirth at any age was a dangerous time. Particularly for those who lived on the farms or in the wilds, where a mage or an alchemist might not be nearby. For a thirty-two-year-old woman, it could be a death sentence.

~o0o~

When Einarr opened the door to his room and peered down the hallway, his sharp young eyes watched for movement in the gloom. He couldn't know that dawn was rising over the land of the Nords, or that his mother was pregnant. He couldn't hear his sisters weeping because they were afraid for him.

Quietly gathering his kit, Einarr slipped out of his hiding place. No sign of the Centurion as he crept slowly down the wide hallway. Around him, steam belched and hissed from the ancient pipes.

Breakfast in the castle. He could taste it on his tongue. Sweet mead and thin cakes made from corn and flour, fried in oil. Venison grilled with leeks, green apples, and cabbage. Warm bread from the oven with fresh butter, eggs, sliced Eider cheese and red apples. His mouth watered at the memories and his stomach clenched painfully in an answer. Stopping to allow the cramp to subside, he upended the water skin into his mouth, and the last few drops of stale liquid slid down his throat.

Had the hallway slanted downhill when he first arrived or uphill? There was some snow on that staircase. Perhaps if he followed it, he might find the path to the outside. After an hour of walking where he diligently marked the trail with bits of Dwemer metal, he located the hole where the snow had come in. Thirty feet above his head a teasing bit of gray sky winked down at him. Through the opening, he could see the storm churning the clouds around. It began to snow, and he gratefully caught the snow on his tongue and hands.

The snow sated his thirst for a few minutes. But as his hunger grew and weakness slowed his movements, he has forgotten the lesson every Nord child knows. You must melt the snow before you drink it.

He was so cold. Even his Nordic armor felt frozen to his skin. In his delirium, he began to the remove parts of his armor he felt were hindering his movements. The damn frozen metal hurt his skin and joints. As he walked, he dropped his gantlets and his hauberk. Each step became easier and the lighter he felt as he walked along the cold dim hallway.

The Dwemer sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the stones unheeded.

He would sing a song. That would help him pass the time until he reached the surface.

_"'Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart._

_I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes._

_With a voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art,_

_Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes._

_It's an end to the evil, of all Skyrim's foes._

_Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes._

_For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows,_

_You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come.'"_

Although he often complained that his parents were too strict. He took great pride in his heritage. His mother was the Dovahkiin, his father the Jarl of Windhelm. He would make his mark in this world, in his way, and his choosing. In fact, he would go home right now and explain it all to his parents. He'd tell them about the amulet and how he was just a little scared. Maybe his Mother would put her arms around him because she'd be so happy to see him.

Secretly, he thought his Mother was the most beautiful woman in Windhelm. No! In Skyrim!

Maybe she'd whistle down a dragon for him to ride home.

Maybe that pretty girl who lived on that farm… what was the name of that farm? Hannah. Yes, her name was Hannah.

He began the song again, this time in his native language. His tutor would not be happy that he forgot the words.

_Dovahkiin... dovahkiin…?_

_naal ok zin los vahriin_

_wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!_

_ahrk fin norok paal graan_

_fod nust hon zindro zaan..._

_Mother? fah hin kogaan mu draal…_

Singing took a lot out of a man. So he sat down next to a Dwemer table to rest. Somehow the chair he meant to sit on moved, and he ended up on the stone floor. That's okay, he thought as he curled into a ball. In a moment, he'll get up and continue his way. Just a moment more and he'll move.

Dark blind eyes patiently observed the young man from the shadows.


	3. The Time Has Come Chapter 3

TITLE: The Time Has Come

CHAPTER: 3, Survivor Instinct

* * *

"I can't go back to yesterday because I was a different person then."  
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

* * *

_Dwemer...Deep-Elves...Deep Ones...People of the Deep...Lost Race of Mer...Dwarves._

Einarr squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on what else he remembered about the Dwemer. The harder he tried to gather his thoughts the further they slipped from his grasp. No longer huddled to stay warm, he's flat on this back, with his eyes glazed over staring at the darkness. How could they build those arches so high, he wondered, staring at the ceiling so high the tallest arch disappeared into the gloom.

_Advanced race... stonecutters, architects and engineers, science, mathematics, magic, and the academic arts_…and there's more, something he knows…something exciting...

Finally, he stopped trying and stared up at the ceiling. His tutor tried so hard to teach him those things. He had no heart for it and chafed at sitting still for any length of time. A young boy with his whole life waiting to discover is impatient with mundane things like history, numbers and politics.

_His parents were real adventurers…glorious battles…honor…respect. ...Battle of Red Mountain, Dwemer disappeared._

The air is so thick with the reek of Falmer and death, his lungs fight to keep him alive. At least the shivering stopped. Finally warm and his stomach quiet, he tried to gather his strength. The idea of resting just a little longer seems better than wandering again. How had the Dwemer built those arches without a lifting mechanism? Once he got out of here, he planned to show the amulet to his parents. They would know who could translate the odd writing. The faded pictures he found in a worn notebook with metal covers showed pictures of pipes and how water seemed to channel itself underground. Water often travelled underground in Skyrim, he knew that. The drawings something more, a deliberate action of forcing the water to the Dwemer's bidding. What did it mean? What was the difference between the cold Skyrim water and the hissing heated water down in the Dwemer ruins? Everyone knew getting to close to the hissing water caused burns. But why?

The sound of scratching and scrambling footfalls raised his head off the floor. A dark creature rose up to its full height and waved its arms toward him. Horrible, blind and screeching, Einarr cried out when the thing cast a frost spell at him and knocked him six feet across the stone floor. The impact of his back and head against a stone wall knocked him unconscious.

Four of them attacked him, with their filthy clawed hands pawing at him. Forcing his body to obey his mind, he grabbed for his sword to fight back only to find his hand empty hand. Sharp claws touched his face, reaching for his eyes.

Were these the creatures he'd seen scrambling around? Always just out of his line of sight and moving like shadows through the darkness.

He fought and kicked, but there were too many of them, they stripped him of his clothes and they emptied his pack of its contents. Then in the weak light something flashed across his vision. Einarr turned his face away from the arcing sword and closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mother." he whispered, closed his eyes and prepared to die.

One of the creatures cried out, and Einarr watched the thing fly backwards into the darkness with its head separated from its body. Another screamed in agony with an arrow pierced his chest. Blood bubbled from its lips as it dropped to its knees and sprawled out in the dust. Enraged, the last one charged toward the young man. With space and time to move Einarr scrambled backwards. He didn't care who fired those arrows.

Another arrow pinned the charging Falmer to a pile of sacks. A Dwemer dagger hissed through the air to lodge in the fourth creature's throat.

A tall figure clad all in worn black leather grabbed him around the waist and hauled him to his feet. With his other hand, the man pulled back his hood. Red hair shot with silver spilled around the man's face. The blue eyes filled with concern, but the smile softened any anger at the young boy's predicament.

"Lad, what're you about?"

Einarr smiled back and let his head fall against the man's shoulder.

A long sigh went out of him. "Good to see you, Grandfather. May I go to sleep now?"

With a shake of his head, the man in the worn Nightingale armor picked the boy up in his arms and headed for the closest room with a stout door.

~o0o~

The Jarl of Windhelm rose from the bed and backed away from his wife. He couldn't lose her. Not her. Not his Vika. No, she won't die. She's the head of the Mage's College and a skilled magician. At a snap of his fingers, he could have the finest alchemist in Skyrim at her bedside.

"Ralof, did you hear me? What's wrong?" Vika shrugged on a robe and moved quickly to catch her husband. "What is it?"

"I must go," he shrugged and tried to make a joke of it. "I don't know why I lingered so long in these chambers." Without so much as a kiss goodbye, Ralof hurried for the door.

Utterly confused by his behavior, she closed the robe over herself and called for her maid.

The Jarl of Windhelm slipped out a side door without anyone seeing him. With both hands, he grabbed hold of the rough stones of the battlement and tried to calm himself. Scared is what he was, just plain scared. His only son is out adventuring, and his wife is pregnant. Too scared to pray, he slammed a fist into the stone, stared at his bloody knuckles and cursed himself for getting her pregnant. Maybe he should have taken a mistress, just to free Vika from any more pregnancies. No, he loved her too much for that. There were no other women for him, and there never would be someone like his Vika again. They'd fought together, almost died together and cried in each other's arms when the midwife placed their first born in her arms. After Ulfric's downfall, he and Vika and the other Jarls pulled together and finally pulled the Legion's yoke from Skyrim's neck.

Since that first moment in the wagon, he'd loved her, never imagined he might court her. Then all that changed when the news came out that he was Ulfric's bastard. No longer a country boy and simple Stormcloak soldier, he's the Jarl of Windhelm. To his complete amazement he also learned Vika loved him too. He was a blessed man and he knew it. He'd done his best to be a leader, a good father and a loving husband. All that came easy, to him. But losing his Vika he could not do and it scared him.

* * *

elderscrolls . wikia wiki / Dwemer


	4. The Time Has Come Chapter 4

TITLE: The Time Has Come

CHAPTER: 4, Who Am I?

* * *

"Who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle." -Lewis Carroll

* * *

Einarr woke slowly to the smells of a fire and cooking meat. It was the most wonderful thing he'd smelled in his entire life. Was he dreaming it or was it real? When he tried to sit up the room began to spin.

"Lad, stay where you are. I'll bring you the food."

"Grandfather!"

The Master Thief entered the young man's field of vision. "Aye, it's me. Perhaps you're thinking it's Ysgramor himself taking you to Sovngarde?"

"No, but I am hoping for a bite or two of whatever that is."

Brynjolf sat down next to the young man and allowed Einarr to take a small sip of the broth. "Easy, you'll just toss it back up if you eat too fast."

"Please don't scold me, Grandfather."

"I'm saving that conversation until you're rested and fed. Then we'll get out of this pit and back to Windhelm. I'll let your Ma and Da do the scolding."

The bowl was empty and Einarr was sitting up when Brynjolf noticed the strange looking amulet around his grandson's neck.

"What's that you have there? Has a Dwemer look to it."

"I almost forgot! I can't read it, but there was a diary next to it. He fished the small metallic-bound book from his pack and handed it to his grandfather.

Brynjolf shifted the diary to the light and with his brow furrowed he made out, "The diary says it's the secret to the Dwemer mechanics. How they harnessed steam to run their machines and keep the rooms and halls warm."

"I don't understand the word mechanics, Grandfather. Why haven't we made these advancements ourselves?"

"I don't know, lad. Thought the same thing myself. Seems like we're doomed to pissing in the snow."

Einarr laughed, "Ma caught a serving boy taking a piss in the kitchen fireplace. If I used the words she did, she'd of knocked me on my ass, I mean butt, and I'd be cleaning out every fireplace in the Palace."

"Your Ma had a rather interesting upbringing."

"I know! I wish I could do the things she did. I want an adventure."

"Lad, she lived a dangerous, unpredictable life and until she came to Riften, an unhappy life."

"But then she found you, right?"

"Aye, we sort of found each other."

Einarr rested his head on his hands and stared into the flames. "I want to fall epically in love, have an adventure and rescue a damsel in distress and be a Master Thief."

"No doubt in epic fashion?"

"Yes, you know, like my parents."

"I want that for you too. Ingun and I have it. Your Ma and Da have it. It's more than just love, it's a partnership and respect, and well, it helps to be a good kisser."

"Grandfather!" He laughed.

"I thought that would make you laugh. You look so gloomy sitting there."

"Well, I never kissed a girl so I don't know how. That'll have to wait. Some of those girls in town keep offering to teach me." Then in a lightning change of mood, his eyes lit up. "I can't wait to get the rest of this information translated. Who do you think can do it? Old Calcelmo maybe?"

His grandfather shook his head, "Let's get a couple more hours of sleep in you before that happens. I'm going out and look around. You sleep. I won't tell if you…" Brynjolf shrugged, "There's no bucket around here."

"Be careful, Grandfather."

"I will, lad. I'll wager you killed all the spiders and centurions anyway. Now sleep."

Einarr dozed off thinking about how jealous his brother Sig would be when he heard about this adventure with his Grandfather.

Brynjolf stepped quietly into the hallway and allowed the heavy door to shut behind him. Only then did he give in to the anxiety setting fire to his insides since he'd found his grandson. Talos, if he hadn't found him when he did, if he hadn't heard the sounds of fighting. In a few more seconds, the child would have died at the hands of those filthy creatures. Brynjolf peeled himself from the scummy ice-rimmed wall and headed down the dark hallway.

Within an hour of searching, Brynjolf found food, a few valuables, and a bottle of good healing potion. After clearing a safe path out of the ruins for them, Brynjolf turned back to Einarr's hiding place. He'd get them out of here and the child back to Windhelm without a scratch on him. They'd walk in the front door as if they'd just been out for a stroll and none the wiser. And that would fool everyone but his daughter. The boy had been gone at least two days and nights, by his reckoning, so Vika was pacing the battlements by now. Well, he'd deliver the boy and let his parents meet out whatever punishment they felt necessary. Then next full moon, he'd take the boy out for a safer adventure, maybe hunt some giants or clear out a cave or two. He'd never kill a giant, always seemed a mite cold blooded to him. But sneaking into their camp and stealing a bit of mammoth cheese was always good sport.

Brynjolf rounded the final corner only to find the door to his grandson's hiding place ajar.

Damn that stubborn boy-child, anyway. He'd get himself killed all in the name of glory and adventure. It wasn't his fault there weren't no more dragons to kill or Dark Brotherhood to put down. Hadn't he taught him to hunt, disappear into a crowd, pick pockets, and never become another man's rube?

A note. Brynjolf's heart sank. He would beat that child with his own belt…His hands shook when he recognized the Thalmor emblem. But that's not what really scared him. Underneath the emblem and below the elven words, he noticed the scrawl of a Dark Brotherhood agent.

**_Brynjolf_**

**_We have no quarrel with you. The Thalmor paid us well to pick up your grandson. They simply wish to ask him some questions. For the child's safety, don't follow us or try to find him. The Thalmor will return the child to his parent's when they've done with him._**

**_A_**

A fear he couldn't control roiled through his gut. The emotion of rage mixed with raw fear boiled out of his stomach and onto splashed onto the stones. Then he sank to the stone bed and forced himself to think. They couldn't have gotten far with the boy. First, he'd grab everything they'd collected, find his grandson's horse and locate the trail. Brynjolf dragged a sleeve across his face and began to pack.

When he took a last look around the room, he noticed the glitter of gold chain on the floor. He recognized it. Einarr showed him the amulet and he'd noticed, of course, he noticed the valuable gold chain. The chain was now in pieces. As Brynjolf gather the pieces together, he noticed small clots of blood and hair stuck in the links. So they'd ripped it from his neck, had they?

Brynjolf stood slowly, straightening his back, filled his lungs, and set himself for battle.

~o0o~

It wasn't the endless jolting from hanging over the back of a horse moving over uneven ground or the rope digging into his wrists and ankles that woke him, it was stopping and the damn horse taking a long healthy piss right under his nose. Einarr wretched and all that delicious stew his grandfather made him landed in the snow. That made him sad because he now realized someone had taken him prisoner or kidnapped him. If they'd wanted to simply rob him, he'd still be laying, no doubt gutted back in the ruin. He was certainly happy his grandfather hadn't found him like that. That made him sad, too. Better to try to let them think he was still asleep. So he closed his eyes and tried very hard not to spit the last of the stew out of his mouth. This was so gross.

When they resumed their journey, Einarr took the opportunity to review what he'd noticed. The horse he rode upon was shod. Most Skyrim horses went unshod. Although, with the civil war long over, many blacksmiths had returned to the old ways. The horse's long slender legs were not those of a sturdy Skyrim horse. He also noticed they were careful not to speak around him, which meant they needed to keep their identities secret. With a good ear for languages, Einarr would figure it out just as soon as one of them carelessly opened their mouths. It just required a little patience.

The thing they'd thrown over his body—how kind of them to ensure he didn't freeze to death—was made of finely cured sheepskin and the wool carded to a softness not found in many Skyrim homes. All that really meant was they intended to keep him alive. If they knew he was the son of Vika, the Dragonborn, and Ralof the Jarl of Windhelm, he'd fetch a fine ransom.

The horses began to climb and Einarr took advantage of the moment to raise his head. It was then he noticed the amulet was no longer around his neck.

Stay calm, Einarr. That's what his grandfather would say. They were climbing out of The Pale, headed West. That meant either Winterhold or Hjaalmarch. If they meant to use him as a bargaining chip, taking him to Winterhold would only ensure their death.

Night began to fall, but still they pushed on. Einarr slept for a while then when he woke, noticed the night sky and figured it was about an hour to sunrise. The ride over the mountains left him weak and shivering. Then one of them blindfolded him and dragged him off the horse. Then in broken the broken words of his own language, yet it was more Cyrodiilic than the language they spoke at home. No matter, the idiot had just identified himself. His accent was obviously Breton, a man and he'd used a base Nordic curse.

Idiots.

Still blindfolded two set of strong hands held him up so he could he relieve himself. Then a quick swallow of water, a bite of bread shoved in his mouth and then it's back on the horse.

Excellent, now he counted at least two men and four horses. They were about to drop out of the low hills surrounding the Hjaalmarch and head to Morthal perhaps?

He never found out because after a few miles, they stopped again and one of the men lifted his head by the hair and forced him to drink a potion. As his mind swirled into a maelstrom of drug-induced hallucinations, he tried to focus his mind on home, his mother's fierce courage, and his father's quiet determination. His grandfather, the man who'd taught him almost everything he knew. His beautiful mother who so patiently tried to teach him magic. Once again, in just the space of a few days he found himself wishing he'd taken the time to learn. As he faded away, he made himself a promise to learn magic and become a better student…


End file.
